


The Graystreamers

by DiverseMaterials



Category: Original Work
Genre: Conspiracy, Dystopia, Gen, Mind Control, Other, The golden ratio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiverseMaterials/pseuds/DiverseMaterials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Work in progress</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drudge

The Graystreamers

Simon averted his eyes from that evil Tower, as its lights swept over the small iron-railed bridge he was crossing on the way to his apartment. Its presence served as a reminder of the drudgery of his day as it sent intrusive beams to every corner of the town. He could handle it during the day; he worked in an adjoining building but in the evening it was different. The Tower was a symbol of what he despised and the source of an annoying mystery.

It rained heavily as usual, the Towers searchlights failing to illumine the vast black clouds overhead. Simon dodged a neat platoon of people in mackintoshes and matching umbrellas. He would not be caught in their banal chatter. Their conversation was as dry and lifeless as the air in this town. The air was dry even with the weather like this.

Finally through the lashing rain he saw a sign which read ‘Plebeian block A72’. Simon counted his way through the gardens till he reached the place where he lived, ‘residence fourteen’.

His home had a small square garden in front of it with a pool on the right hand side. The house itself was a half-sphere, an upturned bowl that had 4 smaller half-spheres projecting symmetrically from it. They contained respectively a lav, bathroom, kitchen and storage. He always thought the homes looked rather like turtles going for a drink. The thought might have been amusing were it not for the fact that all of them were made of the same dull smooth concrete. Simon was never amused. His world consisted of unfriendly iron railings, enclosed concrete alleys and batch after batch of houses.

He squinted through the rain. From his door he could just make out plebeian block A71, which had exactly the same layout as this one.

He slammed the door on the rain and slowly crossed the partition into his bedroom. An old rattling air conditioner started up as he moved across the room and looked at himself in the mirror. He was always impressed; he had a very lithe form with good solid bones and tightly packed muscles. His squareish head contrasted with a thin but pleasant face enhanced by neat stubble. All very good…except for the sunken eyes.

He flopped on the bed; his work in the fabrics factory under the Tower did that to him. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was for sometimes either. Three daily doses of paperwork and logging, and it totally lacked a design department. Blueprints came down from the Tower.

He produced clothing for individual use at the fabrication corporation. The air-conditioning corporation produced an air conditioner for everyone. Rather bad quality as well. Oh well it had a green base and top, (green, at least it was green) a segmented middle and was shaped rather like a bishops hat. Oh yeah and it rattled. Simon wouldn’t have minded, he liked the shape, if only he could have gone and brought an alternative from a different company and kept this one as a souvenir. But he couldn’t, Air-conditioning Corporation was the only company that made air conditioners and they only made _one_ type available to him. The residents’ room freshener ‘essential for the modern home’ was what the factual voice of the ad man had said. _Right so everyone needs to hear its regular coughing and spluttering do they?_

Still, one thing made his featureless existence worthwhile. He had a treasure; no he had several treasures. They came from the age of artists and he had always kept them locked away and hidden safe from prying eyes and hands. All in one box. He’d lied about it on his declaration of possessions form. He snorted in disgust; this was its final resting place, in his drab concrete hovel.

As he turned the key in the golden lock and flipped the lid back he visibly relaxed. He just looked at the treasures, bathing his brain in their variety and richness of expression.

On the right of the chest was a pile of books novels and other papers. On the left were some miniature oils, some tightly wrapped Belgian chocolates dated from 2020, a voodoo doll and the forbidden video.

Well it wasn’t anything serious, it was Dr who and the Destiny of the Daleks, but the point was that it wasn’t an official boxed set with shiny plastic coating and the logo of the now defunct BBC. It had been recorded off a live broadcast and came with an announcement before hand, a selection of adverts between episodes and snippets of news.

Simon knew you could still get videos, if you could ever tell which of the drab concrete shells was a video shop. But blank videos and record buttons had disappeared a long time ago. The excuse had been copyright. But whose copyright? With books different authors still made contributions to different printers. Different artists painted pictures. But the Tower had exclusive control of _all_ televised media, full stop. Yes he knew various companies, his included, were evolving towards a total monopoly of their products but nowhere else was such iron control exerted. Simon could only wonder.

He thumbed quickly through some of the books. There were novels by John Grisham and Stephen King and Irvine Welsh. He took out _The Client_ and touched it affectionately before placing it on a tiny shelf by his bed. _This little collection_ , he thought, _is better than all the books and stories available in shopping zone 5_.

Again, there was nothing wrong with the products available and it was still the only area where you could see individual names instead of the _product_ company. His problem was they were all uni-styled. A long time ago a trend had started up for stories to be told in single person viewpoint instead of limited omniscient viewpoint, which was the norm when he was very small.

Well it may have been in demand but something happened to the books. They became gimmicks, cheap novelties. They ceased to be stories and became something nicknamed lifeshots. The conventions took over completely and books were sold alongside trashy plastic toys. The companies cowered in fear of the trend and switched totally to that method.

But the books need not have feared. Simon looked at _The Client_ again and then to his box which had, at the bottom, the complete works of Shakespeare. The books were stronger than that. Stronger than gimmick novels. The power of the stories surpassed the pitiful tools used to tell them such as viewpoint and all that.

Other than read he had nothing to do. Not here and not in many other places. Slowly he crept into bed and awaited the swift covering of sleep to be broken by the coming of dawn.

Brief dreamlets came to him unbidden. Quick images of his factory crumbling under some unseen weight. Flashes of making love in his bed with the stink of salt and vinegar crisps around him. Was it real or imagined? Now that he was here he had to escape the nightmare.

He burst out of his house and ran along the streets. No use, a shimmering fog was forming around him. Simon cursed, always he tried to push the memory into his conscious mind but his efforts had proved fruitless. He raced through the streets but the fog was enclosing him. There seemed to be a strange thick web that was part of its formation.

Simon was teleported to a black corridor. He could see a gap in the fog-web which revealed a window.

_Do not resist the stream._

Where had that voice come from? Through the gap in the fog he could make out a shiny transparent lump. The fog had congealed into 4 smoky shapes.

_Do not resist the stream!_

The voice seemed to resonate from that small lump but it surrounded him. The 4 smoky shapes had now formed into large muscular gray creatures. The lump was hiding behind them. It seemed to be a hideous hunched figure. Simon backed up the corridor quickly. More of the gray creatures were forming in the sky. Now with one guttural voice they uttered the same words.

 _Join us! Join us!_ The four marched through the gap in the fog but the lump was still unclear. A whole army of them marched up the corridor towards him and amongst them was the whisper of a nameless fear. _Join us! Join us!_ Simon turned to run and looked into a pair of glowing green eyes.

He shot up out of bed in a sweat. He knew he had to remember something but he couldn’t grasp it. He removed all of his clothes and then, grasping onto one of his books for comfort, he lay back and hoped for an undisturbed night.

 

Simon popped out of his ‘turtle’ at 8.00AM precisely. For the moment the weather made a pathetic attempt to be sunny and a few people in simple tracksuits were coming out of their houses to go to their various workplaces. The tired sun had patchily dried the concrete and there was a constant scraping sound as leather boots dragged along the narrow main street.

Simon gazed along the length of it and sighed. He now began his own private ritual. First stop, the ice cream shop.

Just the ice cream shop. Not ‘Zizzis parlour’ or ‘Italian delights’ or ‘stop for a creamy shock.’ Still this particular parlour wasn’t frequented often and sometimes it was a good place to collect his thoughts and decide how he would get through a day.

A man in a gray smock stood at the counter staring through the window. He didn’t smile when Simon entered. But today nonetheless he would order an ice-cream instead of sit there. He found it easy to focus his thoughts thanks to the total absence of pictures on the walls.

“Hello mate.”

The ice-cream mans eyes scanned him and his mini ID badge.

“Greetings citizen zero-thirty-five. May I be of assistance?”

_No you bloody moron you’re gonna sell me an ice cream not be of bloody assistance._

“I’ll have a No 11 please.”

The man turned round and checked a chart with numbered ice creams on it for the one Simon wanted. _Of course he has to check, if it was just called twister like in the old days he would have known right away._

“With or without chocolate supplements?” the man droned.

“No thanks.”

The man got a depressingly small cone out of the tray and started filling it from the machine. Simon made an attempt to be jovial.

“Number eleven eh? My lucky number that.”

_Blank marble eyes._

Simon took his ice cream and then the man asked him, “Are you in good health?”

“Yeah, yeah fine.”

“Is your work proceeding smoothly?”

“Yeah everything’s great.”

“Good, please eat your ice-cream.”

Frowning, Simon made to lick the ice-cream but a hand was extended.

“Ninety-nine pence please.”

Simon didn’t pay but started to back out of the shop. The man watched him unconcerned. _Come on do something you pillock! Shout hoy what’s your game or something!_ But the man continued to stare and Simon made it out on to the street and then turned and continued along.

Very carefully he sampled the grainy ice-cream, swallowed it and clicked his tongue. Nothing like the flavours of E-51 and E-79 to kick start your morning. He might as well eat frozen milk so he threw it away and went to his next stop.

 

In the public toilets a man was urinating. Simon cursed; he ducked behind one of the cubicles and peered at the man’s buttocks. The contrast of the white skin with the dark clothes fascinated him.

The man finished and left. Simon crept to the urinals to indulge his secret addiction. Vast rattling air conditioners sucked in the air of the entire city and purified it. Simon felt that the life got sucked away with it. You could walk for miles in the city and still smell the same bland dry air. Simon came here for stimulation.

He bent over the urinals and breathed in the sharp pungent odour. It was absolute bliss, to find an exudation that was so strong and powerful in this bleak splotch of a city.

He knew he looked a complete idiot, bending over urinals and breathing deeper than a yogi. But he needed daily escape. He had been addicted to this for so long that he could distinguish different types of urinary smells. Sometimes they sliced right into his nostrils and sometimes they were just mildly sour. But now he had to leave heaven and go to work.


	2. Rebel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still draft version

The rain poured down as Simon reached the small corrugated entrance to his factory. A very bored security guard flicked a switch and let him in after inquiring as to whether he had a full compliment of headache tablets. Simon said yes and went up the stairs, nervously fumbling in his small satchel. He had a surprise in store for his bosses today.

Work commenced at nine sharp and everyone sat at their desk. The layout looked exactly like a high school exam. They all looked at diagrams of which fabrics they would produce, then estimated the size and weight, then jotted down what sort of materials and what quantity they would need. That took about an hour. Then they had a short break before they were given their materials and sent to work.

At the break Simon would strike. He quickly calculated the material needed and then sat for fifteen minutes.

Finally he came in. Old turnip face, coming to collect the papers and hand out the cups for the break. He passed out Simon’s cup without even glancing at him. That horrible dark grey plastic, an insult to the water that was poured into it. Naturally every single person in the place had the exact same standard issue cup. Well not today, not Simon. He would find out how seriously everyone took this. He swapped the gray cup for a bright shiny yellow translucent plastic one from his satchel.

The effect was startling. He immediately felt more like Simon, more himself than he had for years. He was a person now not a worker. Of course the boss, Mr Turnip face, zoomed in on it straightaway. It was hard to miss.

Turnip stood up and closed the file he was reading with an authoritative snap. _Why on earth was it authoritative?_ Simon wondered. It was an irritating habit that all managers had.

Turnip face had reached the desk and he lowered his spectacles and gazed at Simon out of bloated eyes.

“That cup,” he said gently, pointing the rubber end of his pencil at it, “is not within corporate policy.”

“Sorry, seem to have misplaced mine,” Simon replied.

“I’ll get you another,” said the Manager and walked off.

Simon waited till he came back with a standard issue cup and then clamped his hand firmly round his yellow one. “This is filled with water so I might as well drink from it.”

The managers lips thinned, “We would really prefer it if you used ours and did not contaminate the work place.” He clamped a chubby forefinger and thumb across the yellow cup and tugged but Simon would not let go.

“What will you do with it?”

“Dispose of it.”

Simon looked with hostility for the first time into the watery eyes of his Manager, “But it’s mine,” he said.

“Oh I see it’s like that is it. We will continue this discussion in my office. Now!”

Simon nerved himself. The Manager took him to a door in the wall and led him down a dark corridor that just cried out for cobwebs to make it lively in its dreariness.

 _How does turnip-face know where he’s going?!_ They had made lots of right and left turns and passed many identical doors. Suddenly the guy swung to the left, opening a door as he did so. Simon noticed a small plaque that said Manager 02.

Turnip-Face sat down at a small desk that was flanked by filing cabinets. The low room ceiling and the harsh light bulb promised Simon a headache real soon.

“How dare you even think of bringing that cup in here! You young people think you can get away with anything and carry on as you please.”

“Whoa hold on I just don’t like the colour scheme.”

The Manager looked as if he’d been hit in the face. “The colour scheme! What on earth’s wrong with the colour scheme?”

 _Hang on_ thought Simon. _There isn’t a colour scheme, ‘cause there’s no colour._

“We definitely need a new one.” He said.

“A new one, Hah! You obviously think that we chose this on a whim. You think that we chose to use such colours without a reason.”

“OK,” Simon said levelly, “What’s the reason?”

The manager’s mouth opened and shut like a fish. “Well…I’m sure there’s a reason.” He took a grey cup out of the desk. “Now this cup and its colour are synthetic perfection. Oh no that’s not right. He explains it so much better than me.”

“Who?” said Simon, puzzled.

“It’s a part of balancing the elements. Oh that’s nothing to do with it.”

“Who explains better?” asked Simon.

“Goddamnit! You refuse to see reason eh? You want to see _him_ do you? Well you shall, but you’ll be sorry.”

“Now where are we going?”

The Manager turned and glared. “I am going nowhere. You are going to the Tower.”

 

It wasn’t as hideously bad as Simon had anticipated. In fact it was a comedown. He was inside, _inside_ the centre of administration for this city. At least that’s what everyone thought it was. There were no massive gates. There were no rows and rows of swastikas hanging from the walls and no vicious spikes protruding from the roof. Nevertheless despite the lack of visual austerity the place had a feeling about it. A definite sub-natural chill permeated the corridors and formed invisible shields around the silently beckoning doors.

A plain metal sliding door with a mesh round it opened in front of him. His two escorting ‘higher management authority enforcers’ took him inside and then took him up.

He was left alone in a room in an outer wall of the Tower, which had straight glass windows that sloped all the way from ceiling to floor. In fact they made the end wall.

He stood there now, leaning on a frame with one hand, gripping a gray cup of coffee with the other. He sipped it slowly and looked down at the ground below. He saw beyond the ugly fat blocks of factories to the residential zones and market zones. All divided by slabs of concrete and signposts. He could not for the life of him tell where he lived. Amongst all the concrete turtles he could not see from here which one was his. He had the only ‘garden’ that didn’t sport that months fashionable flowers. The rest of his street did so without fail.

He could also make out the great masses of people as they commuted to and fro. All covered in their gray mackintoshes and carrying umbrellas. A great human stream washing the cement streets. Where were they going these Graystreamers? What was the point in their hurried lives? Simon blinked in surprise, _Graystreamers? Where did that word come from?_ Still, looking out of the window he could see a stream that was being pushed rather than pushing. What, if anything, did the drops in the stream live for? Why did the factories churn out their products for the stream? Where was the stream being pushed?

“Zero-thirty-five! Move into the corridor there’s been a mistake. The Manager can’t see you in this room.”

Simon kept staring at the lumpy paste of a city for a minute and then without looking at the attendant who had come in, moved out into the corridor.

The attendant walked off and left him sitting on a dark bench with his cooling coffee by him. He was glad of the dimmed lights. He could pretend that it was really black in the corridor instead of the monotonous gray that covered everywhere else. Just then a bright light came on further down the corridor. Simon huffed, he would complain very strongly to the attendant even if it got him into more trouble. But as he turned round he saw a silhouette framed by the bright light and he could not stop his jaw from dropping open.

She, not an attendant, strode forward majestically. Positioned just so that the light splayed out from her. Simon would have sworn it was an aura if he had ever heard of such things. But what riveted his eyes was her crown of red hair. The light shone on it and through it so it appeared at first glance to be pure fire.

She noticed him and quickly sat down, moving the cup of coffee in a swift motion. “Hello there,” she said in a perfectly friendly voice. “My name is Lyssa. I’ve been brought here because of my outlandish dress sense. And you?”

For the first time Simon’s eyes looked at the clothes she was wearing. A knee length skirt with tights. An anorak with shiny buttons. All navy blue except for a bright white blouse with a frilly white collar which could be seen at the unzipped part of the anorak. By some standards not outlandish. But Simon thought of the mackintoshes. _She’s not one of them. She’s not a Graystreamer._ “Well I…I brought in a cup that didn’t fit in with the cup code or something.”

“Same story for my clothes, or just about anything else. Corporate policies a bitch huh?” She raised an eyebrow.

Simon nodded, “Your damn right there. Oh I’m Simon by the way and I work in a factory producing crappy clothes for people like you. Though you don’t seem to have favoured us with your custom. What do you do?”

“Well I like plants and literature. But I work in the botany industry.”

That made Simon laugh, “You know I never buy plants so it seems I haven’t favoured you either. Hmm you like literature, not the lifeshots?”

Lyssa shook her head. The soft tip of her hair brushed against his cheek and made him feel dizzy.

At that point a metal door in the wall snapped open and more attendants and guards walked out.“Citizen zero-thirty-five you have been declared a sufficient problem to be taken to the top level. You’re to be taken before the Glass God. The girl waits here.”

Simon laughed, “The Glass God is a myth. Probably the only entertainment we have in this sodding world.” He cast a quick glance at Lyssa who was looking incredulous.

The attendant chewed his lip. “You will not say that when you stand in his chamber and he speaks to you.” He turned towards Lyssa and said, “You don’t see him today. An attendant can discuss things with you.”

Lyssa mouthed ‘see you later’ at Simon. He was somewhat unsettled but his curiosity was piqued. He decided to go along with whatever charade this was. The doors closed on Lyssa and he stepped into yet another elevator.

 

The doors hissed open and he knew he was at the top. The whole room was glass in a pyramidical framework. He felt eyes boring into his neck; the guards would not lead him out, he must go on his own. He could see Manager 02 cowering by a large arch of orange metal lattice. It divided the room in two. As Simon stepped out he saw that the large bases of the arch concealed much of the second half of the room. As he advanced he could see orange circular slabs of stone, stacked like progressively smaller pancakes, forming a dais.

As his eyes alighted on the top stone steam spurted from it viciously and it opened like a jellyfish spreading its tentacles. There, rising from the centre, rotating to face him was a smooth glass head.

Then there was a whole glass body fixed into a pedestal. Lights on the base of the pedestal suddenly lit up and the thing floated quickly toward him with a whirring noise.

Simon was frozen with terror as the thing paused in front of him. All the myths had been true. The glass sculpture had no specific features; it was a general humanoid shape. A slight bump made its mouth and there were two depressions in the face. They were a horrible semblance of eyes which seemed to fix on him.

A vague nose but no hint of ears.

The two glass arms were crossed at the waist as if holding a sword. There were no legs, the rest of the glass body simply looked like a frozen wave fixed into the black pedestal.

“Sssimon,” a voice spoke from the centre of the face.

Simon knew now that it was no fake. This was no remote control device. A deadly intelligence spiked out of the sculpture and pricked him.

“Why call yourself such citizen zero-thirty-five? Why do you make yourself so unhappy?”

But Simon had questions of his own. “Who are you? Why has no one ever seen you?”

“Everybody sees me every day. This form is reserved for the elect or those who require attention.”

Now Simon could see images playing across the surface of the Glass God. Images of war on its chest, brief flickers of red clad singers. All images morphing and changing inside it somehow.

“Wait. You mean the TV! Is that the why the Tower has ironclad control of what gets broadcast and who can make programmes?

“Naturally. Control of the lifeline. I am the source of life. I created this world.”

Simon cast a quick glance out of the pyramid. The city was so far down that it simply looked like a gray splodge. “You made _that?_ ”

“Careful zero-thirty-five! You have been brought here because of your insolence. Do not presume that you will get away with it here.” The image on the Glass Gods abdomen changed to a laser cutting off someone’s arm. Simon got the message.

“Well I don’t know what you mean by that…sir. I just wanted a change, to bring in a personal thing.”

“Then you do not understand,” came a whisper from the Glass God. Manager 02 stepped forward holding Simon’s cup and a gray cup. The pedestal hovered to the left and then a blue beam sprang from the Gods midsection and held the gray cup in the air before Simon.

“I will explain fully and completely the aim. The whole grand scheme which I motivate. You will then see your actions as evil. You will realize why you must stop.”

Simon had to relax as the voice washed over him. If glass were a liquid… hang on, glass was a liquid. OK if glass were a less viscous liquid then surely that voice was it. A cool liquid glass that seemed to flow from the figure and cover his skin.

“In creating the perfect world, its form had to be carefully considered. Why build a rectangular building? Why should two sides be longer than front and back? No, best that it is square and all things are equal. Also acceptable is the half-sphere placed on the ground. Being a circle it has one side and the distance from the centre to the top and the centre to the perimeter is equal. But then there is a problem. What colour will the perfect world be? Why should it be all purple? Why should it be all brown? Logically it should all be in the primary colour, the first and most natural colour. But there are three primaries. Which is best?

‘The question did not have to be answered. Combining the three primaries in equal amounts results in white. Now this is the one perfect colour to have. However there are still two choices, there is pure black and we must choose but we cannot choose for which is better?”

The cup twirled around in the beam. “Gray is the result of equally combined black and white. This gray is perfection, the combining of all colour and no colour. It is a synthesis of all colours and shade.”

Manager 02 smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

“And where do my sausages come into this?”

Manager 02 now did a double take. But the Glass God was not to be fooled. “You are referring of course to the monopoly of the products. You must understand of course that it stems from the same root idea. There will be one perfect sausage.”

“There is no such thing. There will never be such a thing as a perfect sausage. There is only one person’s idea of a perfect sausage and that may change. Everyone will have their own take on the perfect sausage.”

“Then there will be only one type of person,” the Glass God said chillingly.

Simon gasped, “You can’t do that.”

“Ah but I am doing. I have been doing so for the past 50 years. You may think that I don’t understand you but I do. When people get bored with their gray world…normal people that is, they turn to the TV. The television is the source of all colour and enlightenment.”

Simon thought of the hypnotic effect of the Dr who opening titles.

The Glass God continued. “With the help of the environment anything on television will take top priority in the viewers mind. The impact on the subconscious is quite remarkable. If one particular brand is made popular others can be dropped. So the viewers of the perfect world allow variety to decrease willingly and subsequently the TV becomes even more powerful. There is no escaping the cycle. Its evolution is nearly complete.”

“And what will the star program be?” asked Simon.

“You do not want to know that. You are not ready for the truth.”

“What truth? Everything here is a fabrication that you’ve spun anyhow.

There can’t be a truth, there can only be another one of your schemes.”

The Glass God zoomed backwards, “You are clever. Too clever for your own good perhaps. Very well prepare to witness the future of the universe.”

From a spherical door to the left of the dais emerged several creatures. Simon gasped in shock to see Manager 02 reeling back and sitting on a wall protrusion. So he knew nothing about this.

“You’ve seen them before. But I knew you would anyway. So I allowed you a glimpse. That is how predictable you are.

Now Simon could get a good look at this future. The thing was very muscley at the top and had obviously evolved or _was designed_ to carry heavy loads. It was the same familiar gray of all the people in mackintoshes that he met on his trips within the city. But the scary thing was it wasn’t wearing clothes, that was the colour of its skin.

The head had sunk into the shoulders and it had no face to speak off. A slit for a mouth, two small gray pupils in flat blank discs. Only the nose seemed to stick out, and the strange way that it hunched over as if it were leaning on a sword.

Then everything became clear. They had been made in the Glass Gods image. The whole world was being moulded into the Glass Gods image.

Simon stuck a finger up at it, a gesture he’d learned from books. “Is this the perfect future then? I want none of it! It’s not happening while I’m around.”

“Actually thanks to accelerated techniques in genetic metamorphosis you’re scheduled to become one in two years time.”

“Hooray no more deviants.” interjected Manager 02. The Glass God flashed a blue aura which Simon interpreted as shut up.

“Well,” shouted Simon, “I’m not going to let it happen. I don’t care what I have to do. You won’t get to the final phase while I’m alive.”

“You’re presenting solutions along with the problem,” warned the Glass God and displayed the image of a hanged man.

“I’m not frightened of you. But you must be frightened of me. You must wonder why I cause these problems. Why I’m not like everyone else, not willing to just buckle over and be part of someone else’s jigsaw puzzle.”

The Glass God barely paused. “Obviously you do not watch TV and therefore have access to resources containing outmoded ideas not in keeping with my…philosophy.”

“OK then you do know.”

“I’m sure you think you have excellent authors but not everybody likes them. With only one public taste and one style of writing an author’s works will be appreciated by all.”

Simon moaned, “That’s not the point.”

“Listen zero-thirty-five I only want you to contribute to my perfection. Any responsible body would re-assimilate a cancerous element like you. So take the pill which I shall give you. Then you will see what a terrible mistake you made when you decided to be a person.”

A glass cup floated before him. In its clear liquid was a kidney shaped piece of glass. Simon looked at it nervously.

“It’s a little large for me to swallow.”

“That is what the liquid is for,” said the soothing yet icy tones of the Glass God. When Simon still hesitated he said, “You’re not leaving this room until it’s inside you. You will either swallow it or we will insert it up your anus. The choice is ours.”

With that encouraging thought Simon quickly downed the contents of the glass. He felt his throat expand and pure smoothness slide down it.

“Now you see the error of your ways.”

“Yes master,” said Simon, not feeling a bit different.

The elevator slid open behind him. “Always put your trust in the television. Go in peace,” intoned the Glass God.

As the doors clicked shut behind him a final thought hit Simon. Those ultimate killing machines on his tape. The Daleks, they were all gray weren’t they?

 

He was outside and heading towards his house when a hand spun him round. He almost raised his arms to strike but then he saw who it was.

“Lyssa! Have you not seen him?”

“No I got ticked off and dumped basically.”

“Now that’s very odd.”

Simon quickly told Lyssa that there was a Glass God and he had some kind of insane plan. They swapped stories and compared their situations. It seemed likely from the people they had met, that they were the only ones within a reasonable distance from each other who were not part of the Graystreamers.

“We need to escape,” said Lyssa.

“Escape? How? Where to? And what about…” Simon cast his arm at the concrete turtles.

“You don’t really feel moral obligation to them do you?” She looked at him sorrowfully. “Simon they’re already Graystreamers in the mind. This physical change will just confirm it. You can’t beat the change; it’s too late, for them. Let _him_ have his world, much good may it do him. As long as we can look at it from the outside and preserve our values and our tastes and quirks.”

Simon flopped down on the concrete. “But how though?”

Lyssa scratched quickly at her chin and then winked at him. “Quickly, get whatever stuff you need and meet me at vehicular interchange 48 sector 7. We can call it Lyssa’s limos,” she added defiantly.

Another wink.

 

Simon really did wish that they still sold wheelbarrows as he lugged his chest through the streets. But then they were all supposed to become gray muscle bounds in a few years. It felt extremely odd carrying his private chest through the streets after all these years. For the first time ever he was in a gray mackintosh. Hopefully he would not be questioned.

An hour later he was at a door to vehicular interchange 48 subtitled Lyssa’s limos. It was a perfect square of course. He hoped the trip would be worth it.

Lyssa opened the door and ushered him in. There were rows and rows of unused taxis. There was nothing special about the building they were in but Simon’s eyes were drawn to one particular taxi. It was gleaming black. He hurried over to it and stared at it in wonder. He knew these taxis were only occasionally used for cargo transport, citizens rarely used them. After all there was nothing to see. Lyssa proudly flourished a key.

“Ahh how bloody convenient.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Simon thumped a fist on the taxi. “Don’t mess about, come clean! How convenient is it that in this city when I am called to the Tower, I meet a female counterpart on the exact same day who shares interests with me, is released from the Tower early, finds me, and has a ready made escape plan complete with Taxi. Which is black! Which she knows will appeal to me! That glass pill I swallowed, it’s a tracking device isn’t it?”

Lyssa’s jaw had dropped on to her blouse.

“You’re an agent of _him_ aren’t you?”

“Simon no! What put such a crazy idea..? Just listen to me! We both of us have a taste in reading proper books and a dislike of the media. Hence we avoid being sucked in. And I’m sorry if you’re a sexist pig and wanted a hunky man companion but if you think about it the chances of finding another male who thought the same as you is even more remote than getting a different sex. It’s heads and tails you see.”

Simon plonked down on his trunk and stared suspiciously. “That still doesn’t explain why there’s just the two of us. I want to hear something damn good.”

“Well, I emigrated to this place when I was young rather than being born here, and you?”

Simon nodded slowly. He was about to ask another question when he realised he already knew the answer. The glass occupant of the Tower had told him a few hours ago. With this gray world, people’s resistance to media influence weakened dramatically and they fell to its power in droves. With such being the case they were lucky even two of them were able to resist.

“That doesn’t explain why more people don’t put up a fight. Why aren’t there more displays of personality?”

Lyssa closed her eyes in impatience. “How the hell am I supposed to explain that?”

Simon shot up and popped his chest through the open taxi door. “Excellent. If you were an agent then you could have rattled off plausible stories all day. As it is I can trust you. And I’m sorry about the male/female thing. It was just the convenience of it.”

“What convenience?” said Lyssa, frowning.

“Well because of, because of, you know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

“Right,” whispered Simon as he got in the Taxi.

They manoeuvred slowly out. “All the same,” said Lyssa. “We did go to the Tower on the same day. It’s a very interesting twist of fate.”

“Well _he_ knew what we were doing. What if the Glass Gods pulling strings?”

The taxi zoomed along the very narrow streets. “Well I don’t care what he thinks he’s up to. I am leaving this sick city. You can stay if you want and get turned into one of the things.”

Simon turned and looked grim. “I can’t. You know I can’t. There has to be two to carry the torch. One won’t survive alone.”

As the taxi carried on a new downpour started and the sky started to blacken into nighttime.

 

The taxi snootled along the streets. Lyssa and Simon had moved as far as urban residential zone D153 and there was no sign that they were anywhere near the cities perimeter. Simon had suggested that they look for a wall that was somewhat bigger than the usual zone dividers. Lyssa had responded drolly. The mood in the taxi went from hope to friction to despair. Was there no way out? Did the city go on forever?

Eventually they stopped in a dark alley. They hadn’t much choice because every street was an alley and everywhere was dark.

Lyssa’s head thumped down on the dashboard. “Oh we’ve been travelling for ages. Where the hell are we trying to go!?”

“Go? Yes I think I need a widdle.”

“Oh for Towers sake.”

Simon got out and stood next to someone’s garden fence. _Sod the residents_ he thought.

“What the hell are you doing!?”

Simon stood up straight and quickly got back into the Taxi.

“Sorry did I not tell you about my little addiction?”

“You sniff your own pee? I’m not surprised you didn’t slip that into the conversation.”

Simon put his arm round the chair. “I thought you’d understand. Its not just the visual side of the city that’s so blank. There’s a legion of air conditioners that suck away almost every smell. The little buggers are automated. Come home and they’ve been working all day to take the life out of the air. Only urine seems strong enough to last.”

Lyssa sighed. “I suppose I know what you mean. I don’t have air conditioners in botanicals but all the same the aroma seems to get less every year.”

Their eyes met.

“Are you manufacturer distributor or consumer?” asked Simon

“Well I distribute of course but where are they manufactured?”

“Same place as everything else. In the shadow of the Tower.”

Lyssa shifted in her seat. “Then that must be a part of the plan. If you don’t use it you lose it. With the sense of smell practically gone you would have to rely heavily on visual and sonic stimuli. That’s what the TV caters for. They obviously couldn’t invent smellyvision.”

“Aha wait a minute! All the production clusters round the Tower, which means you need a big transport network. It must be in the dead centre of the city. See? The zone ID numbers have been increasing as we’ve moved away. They’re in single figures close to the Tower and there are just four major roads that branch out at equal distances.”

“So?”

“So they’re arteries, and following one will put us on the express to the edge of the city.”

Eagerly Lyssa started up the Taxi again.

“Now let’s see," said Simon. "We need to be heading that way.”

“But Simon that takes us back to the Tower!”

“Not if the zone IDs stay in three figures. It’ll take us to the east road. It’s much bigger than these streets; we almost fill them up!”

The east road certainly was large, obviously designed for traverse by huge juggernauts and a fleet of unloaders. As they drove along Simon glanced back.

“Move faster!” he urged.

“What’s wrong?” but then she saw.

Behind them, unobstructed by any buildings, the Tower could be seen still scouring the city with its lights. Simon fancied he could make out a glass figure at the very top.

“Oh no, Simon look!”

Simon peered out of the window and grimaced. At the turnoffs, rows of Graystreamers had assembled and were staring at them. At each turnoff they came to another line of mackintoshes awaited them.

“Simon they’re scaring me!”

“It’s alright just keep driving. They won’t be able to do anything. They probably can’t cope with something different.”

The taxi sped on and on and on. The Tower receded into the distance. Mentally Simon counted the ID signs and kept encouraging Lyssa. Eventually a great black wall loomed in front of them. _Of course it’s a gray wall. It just looks black in the night._ The taxi stopped and Simon looked at the ID sign.

“999, very neat.”

Lyssa slammed her fists down on the wheel. “Where the hell do we go from here?! It’s a flaming dead end!”

“Can’t be. Resources have to come from somewhere and I’ll bet its outside. So we’re looking for the tradesmen’s entrance.”

Lyssa did not seem to find this at all amusing and told Simon he could drive. The tactic was simply to drive along the length of the wall and spy a likely port. It proved most unfruitful until they came back the other way and Lyssa cried out.

Simon stopped and they went to look.

“Ah it’s a drain with some kind of grill on it.”

“Can’t see us getting a taxi through that.”

They turned to get back in but then a big smile lit Simon’s face.

“Well just look at that.”

The wall wasn’t intact at all. One section jutted forward from the rest where the main road met it. There were two small gaps at its side. It created the perfect optical illusion of a continuous wall even when you were right in front of it. Of course with it all being one colour…

Eagerly Simon drove towards the gap. Lyssa cheered and said he was a genius. Beyond was a dirt track and vast open terrain. As they headed out Simon suddenly felt so light he thought he would float through the roof. It was so tangible, the influence of the city being cast off. Now they just had to find a place to live.

 


	3. Strangeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets a little strange.  
> I'm still considering changing the end completely and reworking the bulk of the text here.

An early morning sun caressed Simon’s eyelids prompting him to wake up. They were parked on a road in the middle of nowhere. But it was a brown and green nowhere. It was wonderful.

He woke Lyssa up and they refuelled the taxi from a can. Then they prepared for another long stint. If necessary they’d drive all day and see what came up. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case.

“Oh my…plant pot,” said Simon. He had been about to say oh my god then remembered who his god was. In front of them was a gray wall.

“How? Did we make a wrong turn?” spluttered Lyssa.

“No way, we drove straight away from that city.”

“But it’s the same one!”

Simon didn’t think so. He drove up a hill to get a better view.

“Ah look I can see the centre. It’s much smaller and there’s no Tower!”

“Another city? They’re being duplicated, it’s a mini of a master copy!”

“Right,” said Simon. “So why is it here.”

“I don’t really care so long as we don’t go near it.”

But Simon could hear the cutting logical tones of the Glass God now reasoning with him. _What is the perfect distance to place a second city from the main one? Why should it be 200 miles instead of 100? Why should it be 50 instead of 150?_

“Whatever it is, it isn’t PHI.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lyssa was manoeuvring him in his seat so she could take over driving.

“If this is the Glass Gods doing he would try to reason the perfect distance to place this town from the main city. He doesn’t need to reason, nature already worked out the answer. The perfect distance from the city would be a ratio of 1.618 to one. It’s the exact same relationship the length of the arm has to the length of the body. Otherwise known as the divine proportion.”

He grinned at Lyssa who was looking at him in amazement. “I read it all in books. Do you think we’ve come a distance of a 1.618 ratio?”

“No way, not even if we speeded like mad.”

Simon nodded. “That means that the Glass God screwed up. Whatever his idea of perfection is it’s an assault on nature. The Glass God is making things wrong.”

He read the unspoken message in Lyssa eyes. _Lets go._ He agreed and they drove off.

Close to midday Simon was clenching the wheel in despair and Lyssa was making gasping noises. They were looking at their 3rd outer city that day. Gray walls, turtle shaped houses and the cluster of factories in the middle. The roads sprang out from it in a cross.

Lyssa was chomping her hair. “This is hopeless. We’ve little food or water in this cab and every road we follow takes us to another goddamn city like a clone of the last one!”

Again the words of the Glass God echoed in Simon’s mind _you’re presenting solutions along with the problem._

“Right!” snapped Simon, “I’ll take us off the road then.”

“No wait Simon you’ll just get us lost! If the cities are laid out in square formation there must be an edge somewhere. A city that doesn’t have an east road. Let’s find it please! Then we can go off the beaten track together.”

Simon agreed and he went at motorway speed down each east road, circumventing the cities. There seemed to be an endless succession of them and he had to quash the fear that there might be no edge, that the realms of the Tower might extend indefinitely only to be cut off by an impassable ravine or the sea. Still it really did seem like the distance between each city was increasing.

Eventually though the Taxi halted and its occupants took in a new sight. The road simply ended and branched; no city. However there were foundations that looked like they would become factory clusters. Also there was life. Well scrap that there was activity. He could see the familiar mackintosh platoon operating a digger. They were planting a series of perfectly symmetrical English oaks.

Suddenly he noticed that the grass he could see for quite a distance was a dull gray. He could see that someone had planted it in clumps over the natural grass. Lyssa had noticed too and started screaming for him to get away. Defiantly he drove straight through the foundations and past where the road ended.

Suddenly the grass was green again and what’s more it was totally unkempt. There were trees and rocks in random places and the terrain was noticeably bumpier.

“Yes! we’re out of it, we’re really out of it!” shrieked Lyssa.

Simon punched the roof and grinned widely. He was determined to put miles between him and the Graystreamers.

 

Little by little the landscape became more undulating and natural. Simon simply enjoyed it as he steered the taxi. On his journey he noticed more and more trees. Eventually the trees were so thick it seemed like the taxi was moving through a jungle.

They came to a really thick clump and had to reverse when Lyssa, whose senses were sharp as ever, pointed out a strange noise.

“It sounds like the crunching of stones.” she whispered.

Simon squinted in the dim light. “You’re right, ground’s covered with them.”

The stones looked like they formed a path and Simon decided to follow it. They were black and round in some places, white and squareish in others. He could not help but feel a small pang of fear. It was ridiculous to think that the stones had been laid there. But suppose they had. He really couldn’t stomach the thought of encountering something here beyond the boundaries.

Now it was foggy and the taxi plunged into the mist. Suddenly it screeched to a halt and Lyssa grabbed Simon’s arm.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

She nodded, “It looked like some kind of wall.”

Then the swirling mist cleared a little and they both saw it. It was a wooden arch, part of a wooden wall and there seemed to be an open gate. Emblazoned onto the top of the arch was a word. Specthorpe.

Now they were excited. “A name. An honest to god name! It isn’t one of _his_ ,” said Simon

“Oh well lets go there now! And _rest_!”

They moved towards the town. The wooden gates swung open but did not shut. Inside the town yellowish dust covered the ground.

Finally the inevitable happened. There was a phut phut noise and the taxi ran out of fuel. It skidded to a halt in the middle of a street.

“Well, guess we’ll have to walk it”

“Oh good. I was absolutely cramped in there,” said Lyssa.

Simon and Lyssa got out and staggered as the blood rushed to their heads. Then they stopped to take in the new scenery. This street was really wide. There were short wooden fences closing off fields and the buildings were large and wooden. There didn’t seem to be any gray, even the mist was greenish.

They ran for joy and slapped and caressed the wood of the buildings. _Lovely brown._ There was a turnoff from their entry road just a few buildings away so they followed it. Here the dust gave way to black tarmac. A steep incline served as a pavement.

Simon was quite happy. He strolled along the pavement holding hands with Lyssa when suddenly a figure stepped out of the mist. Lyssa screamed and Simon thrust her against a wall raising his hand.

“Hey brother what’s up?”

After Simon had finished hyperventilating he spoke. “I’m sorry we just weren’t expecting anyone.”

“You walk into a town and expect it to be totally deserted?”

This was admittedly rather stupid of him. The stranger wasn’t gray but white- porcelain white. He was wearing a purple pinstripe suit with red lining sticking out at the hem.

Simon quickly introduced Lyssa.

“Well my names Joseph,” said the white dude, “and I’m the bus driver for this here town of Specthorpe.”

“Oh that’s wonderful.” said Lyssa, “we can get a bus straight to the town centre.”

“Er say, what exactly you two guys doing here anyhows?”

Simon said, “Oh that’s a long story. Suffice it to say we are glad to meet someone who’s… different.”

“Oh well, same here. Come on let me show you da bus.”

To the duos amusement Joseph turned and eyed up the pavement and houses and then started to slide backwards on his heel in a straight line.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Well that’s the way we walk round here partner. Kind of sets us apart doesn’t it?”

They agreed and followed him to a red bus. He told them service was free and provided by ‘whoever’s in charge.’

The bus quickly made its way to what passed for the centre of Specthorpe. They bade farewell to the driver who wished them a pleasant time and said everyone would be in the shopping mall today. Simon linked hands with Lyssa and they skipped around the streets.

“Oh how wonderful that was,” Simon said. “Didn’t the difference make you feel like you’d been immersed in cold water?”

“Yes it’s brilliant. He was unique. I think I’d like to be immersed in cold water with you sometime.”

At that moment someone dashed from behind a building with a trolley. Simon caught a glimpse of a face underneath long hair and registered surprise. Lyssa had seen it as well.

“Well porcelain white must be the local skin colour, but the similarity of the nose is disturbing.”

“Joseph must have a cousin.”

The entrance to the shopping mall drew attention to itself. There was a faint clamour of haggling voices and the clinking of trolleys. Immediately through the door was a large elevator. Simon and Lyssa descended and as a large underground vista opened up both their jaws dropped in horror.

The clothes could not be said to be different but merely alternating from pinstripe suit to velvet red shirt. The floors had different patterns and the aisles twisted like snakes in wonderful chaos. But every face was Joseph’s. Framed or unframed by hair there was no mistaking it. Simon’s attention zoomed in on someone buying from a fruit stall and talking to the seller. He might as well have been talking to the man in the mirror.

Screaming they fled back up the escalator and rushed and stumbled into the circle. Blindly they rushed towards the nearest house.

As their feet struck the pavement two white vans zoomed round from the corners and disgorged a small squad of red uniformed guards. Batons interlocked forming a cage and they trapped Simon and Lyssa.

Struggling and protesting they were marched to a large wooden house with bars on the windows. A jailhouse sign swung from the door. Inside, they went through a maze of doors and rooms and ended up in a small room on the third floor.

A few minutes passed and then a man thrust the door open. He had a spiky brown moustache and a shock of black curly hair. He wore a scientist’s labcoat.

He sat down and stared at them for a minute. “Graystreamer spies?” he said at last.

 _That’s my word stop pinching it_ thought Simon feebly.

“No we’re not,” said Lyssa. “How do you know about them?”

The man seemed to be considering them carefully.

“We have been aware of the Graystreamer incursion near our land. There is no danger; their build pattern will bypass Specthorpe entirely. Unless of course someone imparted information about our existence. Then their leader might decide to pay us special consideration.”

Simon had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You know the Glass God?”

The scientist’s eyes bulged widely. “ _You know the Glass God!_ ”

“As much as I want to.”

“An understandable sentiment. What I do not understand however is how someone like you could have met him. I will need to consider this further. Lock them in the prison.”

“Hey wait a minute!”

 

Now they were both locked in a high room. It was however very comfortable, with cushioned furniture, a small cupboard of snacks and a small library of books. This last item had really lifted Simon’s spirits and he ploughed through a few. They were proper books, not the commercialised media trash produced in _that_ city. Lyssa was having none of it though.

“What do you think is going on here?”

“Oh I don’t really care. It’s all out there and I’m in here and this rooms got more variety than the whole of _his_ city.”

“But all the Josephs! Why isn’t this one of _his_ towns?”

“The scientist dude was different wasn’t he?”

Lyssa thought about this. “I know and that’s scaring me.”

Simon spoke. “Well I love this german stuff. It’s a robust language, full of character. Sie wissen, wenn jeder die gleiche Sprache sprach alle, die sie ähnliche Ideen haben würden. Selbst wenn es eine beträchtliche Sprache wie Englisch ist. Der Schlüssel liegt im gesamten Ton und in der Syntax. Stellen Sie vor sich, wenn die ganzeDeutschlandEnglisch sprach. Sie würden eine englische Kultur innerhalb acht Jahre haben. Ich erkläre Ihnen, daß sie würde bestimmte Arten der Kulturen durchstreichen und stoppen Erfindungen von gebildet wurden!”

“Well who needs inventions in the perfect world?” said Lyssa, translating.

They both started at the sound of bolts drawing back. The scientist walked into the room.

“I have monitored your conversation. You are definitely not agents and can be considered safe.”

“Well to hell with you! We’d have preferred it if you’d spied on us in a more civilised manner. No need to drag us in here surely? We want some answers from you,” snapped Simon.

“I must apologise for that. But if you would please accompany me to my special room I will explain some important things to you.”

He darted off. Reluctant but also racked with curiosity Simon and Lyssa followed him. They ended up in a stone room, filled with monochrome monitors of various shapes and sizes. The scientist spread his hands across a wide plastic table.

“My name is Mr E. Barnaky. Many years ago a famous American fled to this continent and came into my safekeeping. I could see the trend of the world then. I was right. I swore to him then that I would preserve his uniqueness at all costs. The result you can see for yourself.”

“What?” gasped Lyssa. “By cloning him! But that won’t preserve his uniqueness at all.”

“But it does. I have to look after my little Joseph. The chances of accidental death to one man were far too great. This community will preserve his uniqueness against the stream. Against the Glass God.”

Simon leaned forward intently, “What do you know about the Glass God?”

“I should be asking you that. You are the one who has met him. But I can share the thoughts of an advanced scientific scholar with you. Precisely when he started his ‘project’ I do not know. I do know he has been here for a very long time. The Glass God is an entity from another existence. He seeks to freeze everything in a state forever. Always good and evil have been in a balance. But evil is merely the tool by which good develops. If the Glass God gets his way both Jesus and the devil have had their chips. In this world death is a release a rest. The future of the Glass God is worse than death.”

Simon and Lyssa were stunned after that little speech. They shifted uncomfortably. Once again Lyssa gathered the guts to speak first.

“But you can’t fight fire with fire. All this reproducing you’ve done, you’re becoming like the Graystreamers. Why when we went into that mall it was like being back at the place we escaped from.”

“Well I’m afraid that is absolute nonsense.” Barnaky replied coolly. “You obviously haven’t grasped the bigger picture. The Glass God will rule the world and remake it in his image. It is inevitable. But although in this town we may have lost the difference of individual persons; we as a whole will be different from _his_ world. Our very existence will prevent his complete victory because there is still a difference in the world. Oh and we will never be found. I know how to evade him.”

Simon grabbed Lyssa’s arm and started to drag her out. “I’ve got a better idea than this dump. We’re leaving!”

“Stay here and join the Joseph community!” Barnaky called after them as they found the front door and stormed out. “It’s the only way!”

 

They didn’t risk being picked up by the Josephtown police. They climbed over the picket fence separating town fields from surrounding country. Not far away a wide river surrounded a large hill. Simon decided that would be far enough away from anyone for the time being.

A natural sandbank formed at one point in the river. Before they crossed Simon stopped Lyssa.

“Lyssa it’s about what I said before in the taxi journey. Something about the convenience of you being female.”

“That hardly matters now does it? Oh I just want to get away from everyone!”

“No listen Lyssa. Suppose I was the only guy resisting the Graystreamers. Who would resist them when I was gone? Should I have to be cloned? Would I fade away into nothingness? Or what if someone bore me a child?”

Lyssa held limply onto his hand staring at him quizzically.

“Lyssa you’ve got a moral obligation to procreate with me. We could be like the last chance for the species. If we get a couple of families going that will really throw a spanner in the Graystreamer works.”

The slap sent him tumbling into the grass. It was followed by a shout of “I think you’d better rephrase that!” as Lyssa stalked across the river. Simon quickly scrambled after her. He ran to the other side and hurried up the grass hill and caught hold of her again.

She whirled round and he stared at a raised eyebrow. Quickly he bent down on one knee.

“Lyssa I’m really sorry about the way I spoke to you. I was embarrassed by my feelings. Since I met you I was totally intoxicated with your intelligence and beauty, especially your hair. I humbly request that you as the last sane woman on this earth be my partner as I am the last sane man on this earth. Lets start a family together please.”

He stood up.

“Oh Simon why didn’t you ask like that the first time. That was lovely. Yes I will be your partner. Not for convenience but because you saved me as much as I saved you and in the short time we’ve been together I’ve grown to love you.”

Now they both smiled. There was only one thing left. Slowly, carefully Simon joined his lips with hers and gently kissed. Even as his mouth closed however there was a sudden sharp searing burst of pain. Lyssa screamed loudly and staggered back with blood on her lips. A glass thorn had shot out of Simon’s lip and spiked her. Suddenly, peppering blood all over the grass the glass spikes stabbed out of Simon’s shoulders. Simon shrieked in utter agony and fell to his knees even as the spikes came out of them with a sickening crunching noise. His shrieks became rasping and even louder as the spikes travelled in a wave down his arm, slicing the flesh of his hand. He could feel them inside, horrid needles pricking his guts to shreds before they ripped out of his stomach. Lyssa covered her mouth with her hands and screamed with pure terror. He looked like an evil porcupine. The glass shards shot out of his eyebrows and all around his face.

Then with a choking gargling noise Simon slowly keeled over, Lyssa still screaming, blood poured from his mouth. He heaved and wretched and with a final effort threw up in the river of blood a glass capsule. Simon stared at it as he felt the torrent of blood coming out of his mouth and he realised that it had known. A single Simon was no threat but the minute he promised to start a family he had triggered it and somehow resonating from the capsule, even with Lyssa’s screams he could hear the mocking laughter of the Glass God.

 

 


End file.
